


Comforter

by GeekishChic



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Post Sherlock's Return, Post-Reichenbach, References to Torture, Smut, Translation From A Personal Fic, fandom reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 06:30:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4252962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeekishChic/pseuds/GeekishChic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is slowly healing. Luckily, his doctor knows how to properly look after him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comforter

**Author's Note:**

> The lovely thunderstorms today reminded me of this one, so I translated it into Johnlock for you guys.

They knew what they were doing. They almost always did. Maximum amount of pain, minimum amount of internal damage. He was brought to the brink of death, sometimes tipped enough to fall over into it, but was always yanked back before hitting bottom, before it was permanent. It became tedious in and of itself so, when he was only being worked over with crude instruments, he would take it, internalize it, and roll his eyes until his captors grew tired enough to be manipulated. 

 

Now, however, he was in over his head. They'd cut out his tongue and were carving into his flesh and mercilessly manipulating nerve bundles, but it was nothing compared to what they were doing to John. The others they'd already shot upon confirmation that Sherlock still lived. Such a small thing was a bullet, to completely eliminate everything that was these remarkable people, genuine spirits, if there was such a thing, released into the ether, never to acknowledge him again in the forms which he could recognize.  John was the only one left. 

 

The only person he had left.

 

Unseen hands continued to mutilate, un-anchored voices chided and found great amusement in his suffering. The laughter was minimal when they were hurting him, but it became positively maniacal when they saw how he struggled against his restraints in an attempt to get to John, who began calling his name. He was not at all screaming, as the situation would warrant, not even raising his voice. But the sheer pain was obvious. It was an ache Sherlock felt himself, even through everything being done to him. It wasn't his name in that broken, wretched tone that was the worst thing. It was the words of comfort. Even as they marred John's beautiful, very slightly slightly golden skin further, his best friend soothed  _him_ , encouraged  _him_ , wept for  _his_  wounds.

 

Then John said something he never expected. 

 

"I'll free you," he said cryptically. "When you feel my touch on your wrists, you'll be free and safe."

 

"I... how..." But his words were garbled for the lack of a tongue.

 

"Sh. Don't speak. Just trust me, love." He instantly stopped struggling, fully resigned to whatever fate awaited him at the sound of the endearment in John's voice. Not only did the consulting detective think himself incapable of the emotion, he never thought, in all his years of observation and study, that he would love anyone the way he loved John, this compact, former Army doctor with skin that spoke of how his time on tours in the desert still stayed with him, and deep ocean eyes that saw into his core. He cursed John for reopening the wound that was his romantic heart, leading it into all sorts of trouble with wasted fantasies about sailing tropical waters with him.  

 

He felt delicate, warm fingers around his bindings, the action of which dissolved them. Both wrists were rubbed gently as they were brought  down, then  his shoulders were rubbed from somewhere to his left, John's hands a balm to his seared essence.

 

Sherlock bolted upright, stopping inches from his face, suddenly in full daylight. The sun, softened by the filmy curtains of his picture window in his old room in Baker Street cast a light on it that enhanced its natural glow beyond measure. He'd skipped one, no, two haircuts, so the ashen blond picked up the tiniest hint of a wave and could now look properly sleep-tousled. John was ethereal and in tact.

 

"Are you alright?" Sherlock questioned, frantically looking him over, laying his hands here and there, checking for all they did.

 

"I'm fine, Sherlock. You're alright. You're safe."

 

"You were... they had you..." He grabbed John then, held him tightly to him, unable to stop the pathetic tears, the weak-willed sobbing into the worn cloth of his dressing gown, the one the same colours as his eyes. He had alight blue button up on, one that Sherlock had bought him a long time ago, but no trousers. Sherlock breathed deeply the scent of him, the grooming products he used, his particular brand of gun oil, the tea he was consummately British about making... He buried his face between John's neck and shoulder and he held him too and let him, hushing him with the same pain-ravaged voice as earlier.

 

He moved his lips to John's, slim and soft and tasting of his favourite bag tea with honey. Great sucking kisses stole John's words and his breath and he didn't resist. He in fact actively participated, sliding a hand up his back into his tangled black curls and moving to straddle his lean sheet-covered thighs  with only a physical urging of his movements. John understood without words, so many times. The room went suddenly silver, wind howling through the eaves, rain battering the windows as if trying to break them. This was the dream. This had to be the fantasy, because the real world was never so perfect, so beautiful as John Watson willingly giving himself to him, though he vaguely heard the tearing of his shirt buttons, his own pleas and oaths in the distance. Sherlock begged John to help him, to never leave him. He responded each time that yes, always yes and he could never leave him.

 

Sherlock swore he felt the lightning strike when he pushed up into him, standing all the hairs of his body on end, and causing a near-violent full-body shudder. His blood was boiling causing him to perspire and utter things he'd only ever thought about; such as how much he loved him, how much he thought of him even before he went away, how instrumental John was in his survival, how he was so sorry that he was so hurt during that time. John returned every last sentiment and they wept together in the throes of raw passion. Even three months after his recovery, he wasn't fully healed, but the chemicals coursing through his body dulled every scar and aching muscle as the most important thing in the world at the moment was being surrounded by his doctor.

 

John clutched at him with all his might, crying harder when he orgasmed, yanking him over the edge into his own, where the world went white in a combination of catharsis and lightning. However, his body kept moving of its own accord. There were no more words, and very few tears now, just the music of the electrical storm and their damp bodies, mouths on skin, grunts and groans and gasps. There was no telling how long it was, but when they orgasmed a second time, Sherlock was on top. It seemed to be the maximum of their endurance and he rolled to the side, refusing to release or even pull out of John by his own doing. John only adjusted to lay in his arms, on his shoulder, for easier access to his mouth. He dragged the fingers of his occupied right arm over John's temple and cheek, giving and accepting lazy kisses.

 

"Sherlock-"

 

"Shut up."

 

"But-"

 

"I don't know what you were going to say?"

 

"I... don't know, actually."

 

"Hm, let me see... something along the lines of, this never has to happen again, you can learn to be satisfied with just this once, and you love me beyond all measure and would have me any way I wanted you. Close enough?" John sighed and tensed slightly, about to pull away, but that was the last thing he would allow until he'd finished. He insisted on talking now, when words were still so few, so they would talk.

 

"Close enough," John murmured into his skin, settling again. Sherlock felt the slight downturn of the corners of his mouth. His normal way of speaking often shocked in a negative fashion but John usually knew what he meant. How could he not know? He'd just told him. Of course, he had always been so logical about sentiment, just in a different way than he was. It wasn't really his fault, but he should know Sherlock never let his heart get the best of him, never lay himself absolutely open, unless he felt safe to do so, which was almost never anymore. Even with John at first, he hadn't put his  _whole_  heart out there, afraid of rejection, which understandably happened at first for short moments. Sherlock had begun to find redemption through allowing John to help nurse him back to health, rage against him when he needed to, hours alone just... talking. Even then, there wasn't the complete safety he felt now, in his arms, the total comfort he found in his body and, if there was such a thing, soul. He couldn't remember the last time he wept like that, even as a child. All that went through his mind in five seconds instead of the pre-fall three. It was loads better than the ten it took him when he first arrived back in London, then home to Baker Street.

 

"You're an idiot," Sherlock said, pressing his lips to John's forehead for a long moment. He felt it wrinkle beneath them as the sharp shooter simultaneously frowned and tried to look up without moving his head. "Didn't you hear anything I said? You must have because you answered."

 

"I... Sherlock," John propped himself up on his left elbow to look down at him, his hair even more hopelessly, adorably disheveled, "I just don't want you to feel obligated to-"

 

"I'll feel how I damn well please if you insist that I must feel at all. Must I say that I love you every five minutes?"

 

"Not if you won't mean it."

 

"I'll always mean it. Whether it's sarcastic or angry or any number of tones, I will always... mean it." With another sweet kiss, John lay his head back down. "I would mean it when we were undercover," he said without his mind's consent. "In the past." The perfect creature didn't bat an eye.

 

"Me, too. I figured you just knew and would never do anything about it so neither did I."

 

"It was... difficult to see you try not do anything about it." 

 

John let out a tired huff of laughter. "You mean the women whom you scared off as if you were some child whose father had brought home a woman to be his new Mum?" Sherlock couldn't help his own chuckle, noting how John moved his hand to his bare belly and held it there for the duration of it. "That didn't seem too difficult."

 

"I'm a master at concealing my emotions, you remember."

 

"Not now, now that I know your motive was."

 

"It wasn't jealousy."

 

"Not much." 

 

He sighed deeply, "Alright a little, but I haven't many friends and I demand all of their attention."

 

"Of course you do, because you are a six foot three year-old." He gasped in over-dramatic shock. "And you don't have many friends because you don't want any. We had to kind of bully our way in there and endure your lashing out born of uncertainty-"

 

"Yes yes, I get it. I'm a horrible person."

 

"No," he said seriously, all traces of humor gone from his voice. He raised himself again to capture Sherlock's eyes. "You are good person. Whether or not you want to be."

 

"Perhaps I've tricked you into thinking so." John touched his face and he could hold the facade no longer. "I have to try."

 

"Not to be a good person. You just are that. You have to try not to express it because you feel it will ruin your image. But I'll tell you one thing, it's just going to make others want you more."

 

"What? Why?" John rolled onto his back, a muscular leg, brushed with golden hairs draping over Sherlock's and giving a great cat-like stretch that would have set him right off again if it hadn't been so soon after two in a row.

 

"Because," John's voice strained with his lithe, mostly naked body (his dressing gown made it off but not his shirt), "they'll think of you as a lost puppy full of angst and want to save you."

 

"I don't require saving."

 

"You do a bit," he smirked, letting his hand fall onto his own left shoulder, tracing the large scar he was obviously self-conscious about beneath the shirt there. It told Sherlock that he wasn't the only one laid completely bare now. "It really just means you need people, friends, family. You'll always need someone else. Everyone does." 

 

Sherlock achingly pulled himself over him.  The pain was beginning to return now. "I only need you, John."

 

"And Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and especially Molly Hooper," he listed with a magnanimous smile.

 

"I-" 

 

"And if you say that you can get people to replace them, remember first that my leg is in the perfect position to do you great injury."

 

"Well if you add Mycroft and my parents to that list..." he warned. But he could think of nothing. He would never harm John purposely. Because he was correct as usual, though it really irritated him.

 

"You'll what?" Sapphire eyes widened expectantly, brows up nearly into his almost long fringe, a maddening smile on his kiss-swollen lips.

 

"I'll withhold sex," he smiled back triumphantly.

 

"Thank you. I do need a rest. I'm starting to ache already and I know you're probably sore, too. Though, from other things" John playfully shoved him off and sat up, looking around the room for his lost buttons as Sherlock pouted harder than he actually felt at his defeat. John plucked two buttons from the bed then got out of it to find another.

 

"If you're going to be bending over like that, the least you could do is take off your shirt the rest of the way so I can see properly... John, I've hurt you."

 

"I'm fine, Sherlock." he leapt out of bed over to his gingerly walking new lover and got on his knees behind him.

 

"You have to let me see-" John then turned to face him, proximity abruptly cutting off his words.

 

"I've never in life done more than just play around in that particular area until now and it has been quite some time since I've done even that. There was bound to be a little... exuberance fallout. I'll take some ibuprofen and soak in the tub and I'll be fine. It's time for your medication anyway." He pulled himself to a sitting position on the bed, John's appreciative glances not going unnoticed.

 

"I... need a bath as well."

 

"I'll run you one before I go down and see if I can use Mrs. Hudson's so that-" Sherlock was looming over him before he finished what he was saying.

 

"You're not going to stay?" John's countenance went from cheeky to apologetic.

 

"I'm just kidding, Sherlock. Of course I'll stay with you, if you like."

 

"You're an idiot."

 

"Sweet talk like that, I may just get on my knees right now." John planted one on him, playfully slapped his cheek, and disappeared into the bathroom. A moment later he heard the water go on and John leave through the other door to get his various pharmaceuticals from their "hidden spot" in the cupboard behind the cups that were used the least.

 

He returned after Sherlock had quickly used the facilities, balancing a tray, loaded with two cups of tea, a bottle of water and his portion of painkillers, antibiotics, and what he supposed were vitamin supplements. He took them all and showed John his mouth and hands out of routine. When he was a child, when he was in rehab, he always had to prove he'd swallowed them and not stashed them for binning then, later, for currency or later use. Except for the vitamins. As some sort of amusement, John had gotten ones that were similar to Haribo gummy bears to replace the large pills he usually took. He glared at his partner in everything now as he chewed two of them, having a hard time maintaining it when John smiled at him all... happy like that. Fortunately he turned his attention back to the bath just as Sherlock's resolve broke and he smiled in return.

 

He entered the room after hearing the toilet flush to John taking down the hand held shower nozzle he insisted they needed(it actually made a lot of things easier but he'd die before he admitted to it). The tub was piled high with bubbles and he felt the slight grit of the undissolved Epsom salt under his feet when he stepped in. It was extremely warm, near scalding, as they agreed was best. He gazed at john as he looked in the mirror over the sink, examining his face for some reason, the rather harsh light of the room kissing every last hair and mark. It was atrocious how much he always wanted him. John turned to catch him looking and blushed prettily, attempting to conceal himself with motion, but there were only but so many ways to turn in a bathroom. Sherlock held out his hand.

 

"I thought you were used to me looking at you," he noted.

 

"Not naked. And not like...  _that_."

 

"Like what?" The conversation distracted him enough for Sherlock to be able to look his fill as John stepped carefully into the water and settled in his lap and back against him with a flinch that he nearly physically felt himself.

 

"Like... like you want me."

 

"Am I not supposed to?"

 

"It's fine. It just... I need to get used to it."

 

"That would be best, because I don't know how not to look at you that way." What was  _wrong_  with his mouth? It was rebelling horribly, saying things without his mind's approval. He was never this outwardly sentimental, yet here he was, bending and twisting his neck for a volley of kisses, his mind churning with a chant of how it'd never be enough. He'd never get enough of John. This was going to be difficult. Especially with a soundtrack of romantic inane music he'd set playing on his phone as it sat next to Sherlock's on a little table by the tub, in their matching black shock and water resistant cases. John's of course bore the same RAMC crest his favourite mug did and Sherlock's had a rather clever drawing of a violin made from his skull and various lab equipment drawn by, of all people, his new biggest fan, Anderson. This was insanity. Especially when he'd quickly texted his brother whilst John was busy in the kitchen. He hadn't the time to spend on the phone with his mother as she gushed over his asking for the ring she'd inherited from his Grandfather. His parents were the original, what was puerilely called on the internet 'Johnlock shippers', insisting they would be together. Mycroft had texted back a smug 'Good Luck' that he just knew he'd regret.

 

Proven when his phone rang. He must have done it immediately instead of waiting until a reasonable time(read: Sherlock was too busy to answer). Arsehole.

 

He encouraged John to leave it be with slow kisses, had him turn around and asked him, with his best puppy dog eyes, to wash his hair, something they both found they enjoyed immensely when he'd first come back. He even let slip the thing about how the detachable shower head made everything easier, justifying it to himself by thinking about how he was technically dead for two years, so he hadn't broken his oath. Though he did enjoy the sponge baths. The  _only_  thing good about his physical state upon his return was that, between his ravaged body and various medications, he was unable, for a time to become aroused. It used to infuriate him before, when they'd experience a heat wave or, that time the furnace broke, and John would flit about the house indecently dressed. No one else seemed to have a problem with it, but then, no one else was trying hopelessly not to be in love with him.

 

Sherlock ended up turning his phone off when he glanced at the screen to see four new voice mails. Mycroft would pay for this. But later. Much later. After the swelling in his crotch went down as John kissed and washed the rest of him after the conditioner had been applied. John aided in that endeavor immensely, Sherlock registering the regret he felt at having to keep his hands away from his backside as he had made him sore. He didn't like that tiny part of him that felt proud to have basically fucked him bow-legged, but only because when, in his useless flights of fancy, he pictured their first time together, it would always be slow and gentle. Everything John deserved it to be. Sherlock contented himself with touching as many other things as he could reach. His lizard brain triumphed in the marks about his collar area even as his conscious mind shook its figurative head at the rather adolescent form of claiming.

 

John met his fervor kiss for kiss, devouring his mouth in the same manner without hesitation. He had no idea how this orgasm was as strong as the others without knocking him unconscious. He carefully helped John wash after and watched him dry off and wrap the towel around his hips before rinsing Sherlock's hair for him and beginning to drain the tub so that he could finish whilst he checked on the stew he smelled. He must have brought it up from Mrs. Hudson's when he was asleep. John came back into the room and immediately took over the ointment application, complete with a brief but effective massage that nearly put him down again but for the unbelievable arousal. But John wouldn't give in this time, praising his virulence, but insisting on boring things like eating. Sherlock's lean belly rumbled loudly even as he protested.

 

"Traitor," he murmured to it, scowling.

 

But John brought in the telly he'd specifically hauled onto a rolling trolley so they could watch all the terrible programs from the comfort of Sherlock's room. Only this time, John was in bed next to him, refusing to spoon feed him now that he was well enough to 'fuck him bowlegged'. He had Sherlock honestly questioning his sanity because he was certain he hadn't said that bit aloud. John teased him by bringing a spoon to Sherlock's mouth but, snatching it away to take the bite himself. Sherlock threatened and cajoled, but never got anywhere, nearly falling asleep from his medication before he could eat his fill. He lay comfortably in John's lap after he finished and dropped right off to the sensation of John carding his fingers through his hair and complaining about someone whose accent was clearly fake. Well, not clearly to John, but that was per the usual.

 

In other words, all was as it should be.


End file.
